of happenstances, sea's life and the voyage upon it
by blissfulme
Summary: Adèle has a belief that she doesn't belong. It comes in little tiny bits almost too brief and fleeting to recognise, as if it is not real but just dust in the wind. She sees it in Jane's smile every time she walks past. -a modern one/shot on Adèle and her life


Gothic Narrative, Genre Study English_ By Shion Watabe_

**Happenstance **

The image imprints into the back of Adèle's eyelids, sticking like glue, always staying and never leaving. The sight of them looking so perfect and flawless, the undying love radiating around them, is a vicious and painful stab at her heart. She doesn't really understand how they can find it in themselves to share and love so freely, it is an action that is too foreign for her to grasp. She feels like an intruder, violating a precious moment. They didn't do anything wrong, but seeing the family sharing this love and joy without her, hurts. The betrayal cuts her deep.

She feels as if it is her fault, because gradually this perfect family is drifting apart. It comes in little tiny bits almost too brief and fleeting to recognise, as if it is not real but just dust in the wind. Sometimes late at night, when her nightmares make reality safer than fantasy, she hears the tension in their arguing voices. Other times it is so quick that if she blinks, she'll miss it, like the falter in Jane's smile in the morning as she walks past.

Of course, she knows that she isn't part of the family, she's adopted, the daughter of some opera dancer in France that abandoned her. Even though Jane and Edward are her parental figures, she doesn't feel the connection, she can't open up to them. She just keeps all her thoughts and worries locked up in a small room in her heart, sharing nothing.

It's only when Jane opens her eyes and glances around the room does Adèle move. Her dance practice pays off in moments like these; warily managing to retrace her steps quietly, softly whispering at the wooden planks to keep silent. The silhouette of her sulking figure is unmistakable in the candle-lit hallway, a shadow among the stoic portraits adorning the pale cream walls. The mansion itself makes her feel out of place, everything is so old, so traditional, like her family. Although Thornfield is a town renowned for its history, their home is one of the last heritage buildings left.

Everything about living in Thornfield is unsettling and even when she's in a crowd she feels alone, separate from everybody. Every time she walks through the streets, she can hear those whispers about her French accent, creeping up on her.

_Can't she speak English? _

_I feel sorry for her, she can't even speak clearly._

It repeats over and over in her mind, like a metronome, slowly tearing at the walls of self-confidence she builds up.

It makes her realise that maybe it is time for her to leave.

For the first time she's not scared of this place, with a newfound courage and bravery replacing the fear that had clouded her heart. Walking back through the hallway and past the eerie portraits, the shadows seem to shy away from her, afraid of her fresh confidence.

Not a single look of surprise travels across Jane and Edward's features as she breaks the news, almost as if they had already known, as if they had already seen it coming. It's a silent affair as she leaves. No one says a word and she knows that they're contemplating whether or not they should ask her to stay, even though with her leaving a burden will be lifted off their shoulders. She goes back the way she came from, not even bothering to glance behind and wait for their half-hearted pleas, asking her to stay.

After much thinking, packing and crying, she manages to fall into a fitful sleep. Nightmares haunt her, worse than before, as if they know that it will be her last night here. It flashes back to her, those images of the fire, that mad beast cackling and those terrors she lived through when she was much younger. She always wishes for someone to comfort her when the nightmares are too much for her to cope with, someone to tell her that everything is just in her head, someone to say that it's all just a figment of her imagination. But there isn't.

In the morning when she wakes up, her body still bears the remnants of that overhaul of emotion from the night before. Her eyes look puffy, caked with dried tears and her hair is a frightful mess. Most of all, that feeling of betrayal, that she isn't needed, that maybe the nice family she's lived with her whole life is fake, hurts her the most. That maybe everything was out of obligation rather than out of parental love breaks her.

It cuts her the deepest, a pain she will probably never forget.

Only when she gets out of bed does she realise the envelope under the door, blank except for the coffee stain on the edge. She carefully opens it, trying her best not to rip the paper. An address is written on the sheet inside, and the only thing she notices is that it is located somewhere in France.

Many weeks pass before she finally finds the cemetery, its address the same one that was inside the envelope. It's overcast, the clouds dim and gloomy, as if they're echoing her mood. The smell of moss and decaying leaves is strong in the air, the tree roots swelling from the ground, tumbling over and breaking open the tombstones. Some have weeds, moss and lichen growing on them, covering the barely readable epitaphs. She notices a lone raven perched atop one of the tombstones, and she isn't sure if it is intuition that makes her walk towards it or something else entirely.

When she reaches the tombstone she realises that it belongs to her mother, Céline Varens. The epitaph is covered in moss and as she pries it away she can see that there are two separate inscriptions.

_The wall on which the prophets wrote  
Is cracking at the seams…_

_Between the iron gates of fate,_

_The seeds of time were sown,_

_And watered by the deeds of those_

_Who know and who are known;_

_Knowledge is a deadly friend_

_When no one sets the rules._

_The fate of all mankind I see_

_Is in the hands of fools._

_The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven…_

She is not sure whether the pull to the grave and the raven perched on top, was an omen or happenstance. Despite this uncertainty, she feels that her visit to the graveyard was not in vain, but a source of hope. She stands up on the brink of Golgotha and looks around a while, pondering her voyage, for it is no easy road ahead of her.


End file.
